


Gabriel Reyes is Huge

by kabrox18



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, JESSE IS SAD, others are mentoned, platonic dad/son mcreyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8319247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabrox18/pseuds/kabrox18
Summary: Some snapshots of McCree's relationship with Gabe in and after Blackwatch.fluff for days





	

Jesse glowered at the dude that had his shoulder in a vice grip, a rich European accent the youth couldn't pinpoint flowing out.

“Commander’ll like you--fiesty little thing you are will be  _ good _ for us.”

“Who's the commander?” He has a distinct feeling he won't get much of an answer, and he's right.

“Ah, he says keep quiet until you see him face to face.” Well at least now he knows it's a guy. Might make things easier on him, might make things harder. McCree looks forward again, staring sullenly down the winding halls. Finally they get to a door with a number beside it--the guy presses a button beside the doorhandle and sweeps it open with a flourish.

“Boss, brought the new kid in like you asked.” A blonde man with imposing blue armor and a flowing coat turns, showing a sharp, youthful face and eyes just as blue as the armor.

“Ah, well, I was just talking with the Commander. I'll be going, so he can work in peace.” Jesse registers the handsome man as the poster-boy Strike Commander of Overwatch, Jack Morrison. He strides out and the European guy slaps McCree on the back, giving a broad smile. 

“Good luck kid. The boss is picky about new recruits.” With that he’s gone, vanishing opposite of Morrison. He hears a gruff “siddown, kid”, and comes into the room, squinting at the darkened figure in front of him. This “Commander” is obscured by sharp, bright backlight, the glow of sky and land shining in. He sits, and shifts around, staring at his cuffed hands in his lap. There's movement and footsteps, the Commander coming around the desk. Jesse looks up, right into the vaguely annoyed expression of one  _ massive _ Latino.

“Holy shit,” he practically squeaks, shrinking back into the chair as his eyes go wide at the sight. The guy looks like he could bench an Omnic.

“Hey, hey, don't be like that. I don't bite, unless you slack off or fuck up.” The tone’s serious and McCree bites his tongue, wondering what his definition of  _ fuck up _ is. The guy watches him a long moment before sighing resignedly, leaning back on his heels and stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket. There's a patch on the shoulder--definitely doesn't look like the Overwatch logo.

“Commander Gabriel Reyes,” the guy says, simply. “You're Jesse McCree, if we caught the right guy.” He nods, adjusting his hat.

“That’d be me, alright. You the boss of this place?”

“I am. I've been lookin’ for you, Jesse. Deadlock’s not a good way to go. How old are you? Mid-twenties-something?”

“I'm 17,” McCree mumbles, head tipped down to hide his eyes and the shame written in his expression. That makes Reyes  _ freeze _ , staring at the kid in his chair.

“17?” He chokes out.

“Yessir. Just got my driver’s license six months ago.” Gabe stands there, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before going behind the desk again, pushing a button on something he doesn't recognize.

“Did you plan on telling me McCree was seventeen,  _ hijo de puta _ ?” Jesse gapes at the swear--he knows enough Spanish to know what it means.

A crackle, and a laugh.

“Thought  _ you _ came up with his folder, Boss.”

“You couldn't bother to fucking ask him?” McCree shrinks back again, wishing he had more than his hat to hide behind from the monstrous, extremely angry man.

“Was too worried getting the Deadlock to bugger off. They have ops all the way from the west coast of south Cali up almost to the damn Yukon, and way over into Alberta and Nevada. We wouldn't have time to pick through their shit on all the members.” Gabriel heaves another long-suffering sigh, not bothering to repeat his previous question as he hung up.

“Christ on a bike,” he breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Listen, Jesse, I'm sorry we pulled you like that.” He still sounds pissed, but isn't directing it at the punk in his chair.

“S’okay,” he mumbles, hugging himself and wondering where exactly this base was. Maybe if he was  _ fast _ and  _ careful _ , he could pop out and run back home to southern Alberta.

“Well I've got a slot for you--plus the gang will likely avoid you like you've got the plague… I guess you can stick with us.” He sounds grudging of the decision, even if he was the one to come up with it. A hand moves toward Jesse and he shakes it warily, looking up to the tired face above him. “Welcome to Blackwatch. I'll get your gear ready.” He turns and leaves, mumbling derisive Spanish under his breath.

\------

It's not bad, in Blackwatch. Shit happens and Reyes  _ explodes _ in Morrison’s face, the Strike-Commander not even batting an eye at the enraged man. Jesse witnesses the whole thing, watches the way Jack yanks Gabriel to heel like a dog with more bark than bite. He sees the way his surrogate father  _ deflated, _ big soulful eyes full of hurt and betrayal. He watched the way Reyes’s huge shoulders drop, the way his booming voice dips to little more than a pained whisper. Gérard and Liao leave with Jack, bracketing him like secret service on the President. Reyes has nobody but McCree, dressed in his typical gear and holding his hat to his chest out of respect.

“You alright, sir?” Gabe looks to him, and Jesse wants to break down in tears at the look he gets. The face is stoic and blank as usual but those deep eyes seem to stab right into him, screaming silently of agony.

“I'm sorry, Jesse.” He says, very quietly.

“Don't be, Commander. He deserved a chewing out, anyway.” The elder looks away for a long moment, just standing there looking like a kicked puppy. McCree can't take it, and comes closer abruptly, pulling the Latino into an impromptu hug. Gabe doesn't protest, but he’s surprised--after a second he reciprocates it, pulling the shorter person into a tight, suffocating squeeze.

“Ack--boss, need air, need air!” He squawks, hat dropped as he flails his arms a bit, Reyes giving a soft chuckle as he loosens up, the cowboy panting heavily and leaning against his boss.

“Never underestimate the power of a supersoldier’s bear hugs,” he resolves to himself, drawing another, heartier laugh from Gabriel.

“You're missing something,” the Commander observed, pulling away to pick up his hat, dusting it off and plopping it back on his protege’s head, crooked and ready to fall back off. “There, much better.” Jesse laughed and straightened it, meeting those deep eyes. There’s still pain, but now he sees mirth and the sort of fatherly love he’s come to know from Reyes.

“Thanks, boss.” He lightly elbows Gabe, who shakes his head with a smile and slaps him on the back.

“Say, why don't you go get us a pizza? I bet Thorne and the others’d like that.”

“O’course, boss. The usual?”

“Yup. I'll see you in my office to pass it out. Don't forget the sticks, this time.” There's a warning tone there, but it’s mitigated with a friendly wink and a nudge. With that, Reyes leaves, striding off to his office and leaving Jesse to the pizza shop a ways away.

\------

It's been a week since he heard about the Geneva explosion. He’s in all black, cleaned up and holding Angela’s hand as he listens to Jack Morrison’s eulogy. It feels empty, lacking of who the Strike-Commander really was--he’s sure the feeling is more acute for those of Overwatch. He’s the only one of Blackwatch that’s attending; everyone else is dead, dying, or is trying to forget the darker side of the bright organization. Ziegler leaves a wet spot in the shoulder of his three-piece, and leaves with tears in her eyes, carpooling with Ana Amari and Reinhardt, who shed many a tear from his good eye, saluting Morrison’s casket. It’s a grim time, but the grimness falls short of the gaping void that happens when it’s Gabriel’s turn. Everyone has left, except McCree and the man delivering the eulogies. Liao, if memory serves, who Jesse is sure stays out of pity. The crotchety old Korean hands the other the eulogy papers, patting him on the back gently.

“I feel honored to have worked with him. 그는 좋았다.” Jesse isn't sure about the Korean he hears, but smiles anyway.

“Thank you. I appreciate this.” He gestures to the papers, watching the other man nod and leave quietly. He goes to the sleek white box of ashes, touching the top softly. He reads over the papers, feeling hollow as he does. He’s gonna miss the huge angry man who took him in at barely 17. “I'm sorry, Reyes. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you.” He sighs and picks up the box, tucking it under his arm and carrying it out to the man waiting for him, a grizzled old person that has a bare smile on his face.

“Feeling alright, sonny?”

“I lost a good… friend. He was my mentor as well.” He offers the box, watching it lower into the ground in front of the stark white cross, name engraved crisply into the stone. His chest hurts more than it did during Jack’s service, and Jesse wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“I'm gonna miss the old coot,” he mumbles, tucking his hands up under his armpits. The suit feels restricting and he’s incredibly tired. The other fills in the hole, patting the ground down around some flowers that had been insisted on. Marigolds, some of Gabe’s favorites--Jesse remembers the exact explanation.

 

_ “They hurt to see, Jesse, but they help, too. You can't swallow pain like a death without remembering it; it helps to remember it in a positive light. These flowers are a staple of an old Mexican tradition, a holiday used to bring back those that have passed for a few days so we can enjoy them even after they’ve died.” McCree smiles unsurely, having a feeling he knows where the conversation is turning. “I know you said your mama passed not long after having you and your father was kind of… lacking, in the parental department. You can honor her memory though, celebrate the time you spent with her.” _

_ “I can?” He remembers sweets, the music she played and sang to, the way she’d dance across the kitchen, chatting to him and helping with homework. He loved her with his entire being and to being her memory back with fondness instead of a twisting sadness--it would be something he would enjoy forever. _

_ “Yes I can. I bet she’d love to share sugar skulls with you and help plant marigolds.” Gabe smiles in that sweet, caring way he has, and puts an arm around McCree’s shoulders, tugging him close. _

 

He can feel more wetness over his cheeks and wipes his face again, hiccuping in a breath. The sun glares down at him, baking the ground as if it’s angry that McCree is crying over such a person. Such a violent, often-angry,  _ overprotective _ person. He can't help it though, can't help the warmth in his chest as he remembers the care Reyes put into him, the kind teachings, the stern ones, the times they saved each other.

“Maybe you can see him again soon,” the man says gently, resting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I'll leave you in peace, sir. I hope you have a good day.”

“Thank you,” he mutters, eyes locked on the beautiful orange-yellow of the flowers.

\------

It’s been a long day. Talon’s hounding their asses, and he’s working with some of the younger folk in the new Overwatch. Widowmaker is up high, perched on a ledge and shooting in a steady staccato at one bubblegum pink MEKA unit. D.Va yells something in angry Korean, shaking a fist up at the Frenchwoman. Winston throws down one of his bubble shields, giving Mercy a precious few seconds to get everyone patched up again. The scientist’s comm-hacking gadget buzzes to life, and the hiss of the sniper comes through.

“ _ Mon dieu,  _ what are you doing?!” McCree’s trailing behind the payload, hanging back a ways to pick people off at a distance. Unfortunately that leaves him vulnerable, and he winces at the clatter of weapons hitting the ground. He’s not fast enough to turn and catch the monster that pins him easily, claws digging in painfully.

“What day is it?” The growled question catches the cowboy off-guard and he shakes his head.

“What?”

“I said, what day is it?” The cigarillo rolls one way, then the other as he counts and tries to think.

“Shit, it’s November first.”

“That it is. You  _ forgot _ .”

“I did.” He doesn't know quite why the vicious Talon agent is asking him something so mundane as the date, but there’s a pause, likely his captor checking if anyone was paying attention. Nobody was, and he’s pulled back into a side-area, pinned with his back to the wall. Reaper stares him down for a long time, and sighs slowly.

“You were planning to try and fly back to the States, weren't you?”

“That is my business alone, partner.”

“Jesse…” he stops, blinks twice. Never has he heard that name come out of anyone besides Ana, Jack, and on occasion, Angela--not since the Swiss incident. He scowls and grips one of the huge, thick hands that have his shoulders pinned, pulling Peacekeeper free. The ghost stops as well and looks to it, making a choked sort of noise. “You little  _ pendejo. _ You still use the same damn revolver.” There's a watery laugh and suddenly he’s smothered in a hug.

“Reyes?” He says, unsure if this really  _ is _ him or not.

“In the flesh.” He pulls back and removes the mask and cowl in one motion; he looks mid-thirties still, face warm with melanin and life. His eyes are the only thing that don't fit--instead of rich brown, they’re completely black with pupils like red coals. 

“You haven't changed at all.” Jesse breathes, feeling like this is some kind of dream. All this time, the terrorist he heard droves about from everyone is his mentor and adopted father. He was silently grateful he’d never had to shoot the man, and gives a weak laugh.

“Neither have you. You're still the little punk I remember scooping out of Deadlock.” Those inhuman eyes are brimming with tears and they hug again, too-tight and full of sobs and gasps. After a while 76 comes to investigate where McCree headed off to, only to find him talking with Reaper, gesticulating wildly as he describes some past mission.

“McCree,” he barks, hefting his pulse rifle, “the hell are you doing?!” The ghost turns and he drops the weapon, swearing under his breath.

“Gabriel--fuck, you're the guy running around with Talon?”

“Only for the cash. I don't do their dirty work unless I absolutely have to.” There's a long moment before they both are yanked into another bear hug by the wraith, who laughs aloud.

“It's good to see both of you.”

Jesse wheezes at his side and looks to Jack.

“Never underestimate a dead man’s hugs.”


End file.
